


The Union Street Affair

by Polaris



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Holmes beating corpses with sticks, M/M, UST, mentions of BDSM and prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-20
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:04:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polaris/pseuds/Polaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case leads Lestrade once again to Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Union Street Affair

_The advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray_ \- Oscar Wilde

The cold northern wind roared down Baker Street, causing unfortunate souls out walking to duck deeper into their mufflers and shiver against the chill. It had been a particularly difficult winter, and while life in London slowed for nothing, the weather did serve as a grim reminder that man for all his marvels was not in fact the master of his world. Horses snorted steam into the frigid air and tossed their heads, while their drivers urged their cabs on a bit faster. The small man who made his way up the street did not notice any of these things, for his mind was elsewhere. He darted quickly between two cabs, moving with a single minded focus toward a light brick building on the other side of the street. As he glanced up, his eyes watering from the icy wind, he made out the bright lights shining through the blind. A wry smile ghosted across his lips as he watched a tall, thin silhouette pass before the window and out of sight.

The landlady let him in quickly, expressing wonder that he would be out on such a night, and promising something warm to drink if he would only stay a moment.

“I feel it should be longer than that, madam,” he said to her. “I have the most singular story for him.”

With an expression of dismay she turned away from him, and he ascended the stairs to knock once at the sitting room door. A rather languid voice bade him enter, and he opened the door to look in upon Sherlock Holmes, who was curled in a chair near the fire with a book in his hands and who looked, to all appearances, as though he was about to nod off. The unofficial detective raised his head and gave a faint smile.

“Ah, Lestrade. You look very frosty. The cigars are in the box, my dear fellow, and you are of course welcome to a brandy.” The man’s eyes, which normally held such a keen energy, followed Lestrade lazily as he took a cigar and sat on the sofa. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you were doing east of Aldgate at such an hour.”

Lestrade paused with his cigar halfway to his mouth and stared. “I suppose I ought to know better by now than to be surprised at you, Mr. Holmes. How on earth did you know it?”

“There is a rather fine layer of soot on your shoes, Lestrade, that you undoubtedly picked up by walking through the snow along Whitechapel Road. I am something of an expert on such trivialities, you’ll remember.” Holmes picked up his clay pipe and grinned.

Lestrade shook his head as he lit his cigar. “Well, it is exactly that which I have come to see you about, Mr. Holmes. There has been a murder in that area, and an uncommon one at that. We can make nothing of it.”

The transformation was instantaneous. Where before Holmes had lain listlessly in his chair, now he sat up, his eyes sharp and gleaming and his lips curling in a firm smile. His long hands, with their delicate fingers, steepled themselves in front of him, and he leaned toward Lestrade quivering with suppressed energy. “So tell me about it.”

Lestrade, who had found his companion’s lethargic mood to be deeply disturbing, leaned forward as well. On this occasion, as on many others, he could not help but respond to Holmes’ intensity. “Well,” he began, “One of my investigations led me into the area earlier this evening- simple robbery, nothing that would interest you. I had been searching for a cab along Whitechapel Road when I heard the Constable’s whistle from one of the side streets. Naturally, I made my way toward the commotion, and was soon joined by the local police. They were none too happy to see me there, I daresay, but they accepted my help quickly enough when we came upon the Constable. He was in a bad state of shock, being rather a young chap, and after seeing the body I could not blame him.”

“Where was it, precisely?” asked Holmes, his brows furrowed.

“Hm? Oh, along Union Street, not far at all from the main road. The body of a man lay in an alley, covered partially by snow, since it has been such a nasty evening. The Constable had found it while walking his beat, and naturally raised an alarm. When we went to investigate, we found the victim lying face down on the ground. He had been killed by a nasty blow to the back of the head, that much is certain. But the troubling thing is the presence of other marks and bruises on the body.” Lestrade paused and peered at Holmes rather hopefully.

Holmes’ eyes had been fixed on a point somewhere over Lestrade’s shoulder, but now he gave the policeman a sharp look. “Marks and bruises?”

“Yes. The victim’s trousers were only loosely fastened, which I noted immediately as being strange. It was as though they had been hastily pulled up and very clumsily attached to his braces. He was a well dressed man, though, so it seemed an odd thing. But the bruises, well, we discovered nothing about them at the scene of the murder. It was only when the body was moved to the mortuary that we learned of the strange marks. I would have wired you about it if we had noticed anything before that point. No, it was when the doctor had removed the victim’s clothing that we discovered he had been severely beaten before he had been killed. But the really singular and disturbing thing about it is that the worst of the bruising only occurred on certain parts of the body.”

“You do not think this could have been a simple quarrel that got out of hand, then,” said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and taking a slow puff of his pipe.

“I do not believe so, unless his attacker took him over his knee. That is the only thing that would account for the location of the marks.”

Holmes’ eyes widened slightly. “Indeed. This is an interesting problem you bring me, Lestrade. Rather shocking, too. What are you going to tell the press?” He smiled warmly, but Lestrade, who was well used to his derision, keenly felt the sarcasm in his words.

He flushed and set his cigar down. “That is not for me to decide, as I am not in charge of the case. The H Division has one of their own looking after this one.”

“I see,” murmured Holmes, still smiling. He set down his pipe and eyed Lestrade again. “Is the scene still intact?”

“Yes. I have got the inspector’s word that they will not touch it until tomorrow morning. It will be difficult to keep it longer than that, as there are several people living in that area and they’re none too pleased to have the police hanging about. Will you come and have a look?”

“Of course, Lestrade. I have had precious little to occupy my mind of late, and this does promise to be interesting, if nothing else.”

“I thought it might. It’s certainly uncommon enough for your tastes.” Lestrade picked up his cigar again and took a thoughtful puff. “What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?”

“Nothing yet. Contrary to your ideas about my theories, I never form conjectures without having all the facts. I expect I shall know more once I see the scene of the crime.”

“Hm,” huffed Lestrade, and took a moment to study his companion out of the corner of his eye. Holmes looked dreadful upon closer inspection. The heat of the chase had come upon him, making his gray eyes glitter in their customary way and putting some color back into his pale cheeks, but his face was still drawn and there were dark circles under his eyes. Lestrade wondered privately whether the amateur detective had gotten a decent night’s sleep in recent weeks. He suspected not.

“Doctor Watson is still away on his honeymoon, I see,” he observed casually.

Holmes gave him a sardonic look that informed him his attempt at subtlety had failed. “Yes indeed, Lestrade. He and his wife are doubtless somewhere in the south of France enjoying the more temperate climate.”

“Can’t say I blame him for wanting to leave,” muttered Lestrade, moving closer to the fire as another particularly powerful gust of wind rattled past the windows.

Holmes did not respond, but rather stared morosely into the fire.

“When will he return?” Lestrade asked, out of genuine curiosity this time.

“Sometime in February,” answered Holmes vaguely, waving a long hand before he picked up his pipe again. “I did not pay too much attention when he announced it.”

Lestrade frowned and took another puff of his cigar. He himself had warmly congratulated Watson on his coming marriage, feeling that the lady, whom he had only once had the chance to meet, was an eminently suitable match for the doctor. A sweet faced, blonde woman, Miss Morstan had been both proper and charming, and Watson had clearly been enamored of her. Holmes, however, had not seemed charmed in the slightest. Lestrade had thought it odd at the time, but now it was perfectly clear that the detective bitterly resented her for taking his friend and biographer away from him.

“I see,” he said simply, and looked into the fire. He finished his cigar as quickly as politeness would allow, though he rather thought he needn’t have bothered, as Holmes offered nothing more in the way of conversation.

“Good night.” Lestrade stood and took his hat off the stand. “I shall wire you early tomorrow with the exact address of the murder sight.”

Holmes did not look up, but rather made a soft sound of acknowledgment and simply resumed puffing at his pipe.

With a shake of his head, Lestrade left the sitting room and ventured back into the frigid streets to find a cab.

\---

He sent the telegram out the next morning before he left for the scene. With Holmes in such an energetic state, he doubted the detective would arrive far behind him. The messenger boy ran off down the street as Lestrade caught a cab and directed it toward Aldgate.

Inspector Daniels was at the scene when he arrived. A tall, broad shouldered man with gingery hair and rather bushy side whiskers, he gave Lestrade a cold look as the smaller policeman approached. “Mr. Lestrade,” he said in his rough, cockney accent. “We have been holding this scene for half an hour already. I daresay your friend had better arrive soon, or I shall have to turn you over to the local residents.”

“There is no need for that, Inspector Daniels,” said Lestrade briskly, looking round at the scene. It appeared to him much as it had last night, with the exception of the brightness of the daylight. The snow had partially covered the spot where the victim’s body had lain, but the outline of his form was still visible. Lestrade was pleased to see that in spite of Daniels’ cold attitude the inspector had kept the scene clear. He hoped that Holmes would see more in it than he could.

Almost at that moment a cab pulled up to the squalid street, and Holmes hopped out with his customary quickness. “Ah, Inspectors,” he called with an energetic wave of his walking stick as he approached. “I see you have been good enough to maintain the scene for me. I do thank you. Lestrade, I got your message and raced here at once so I may not inconvenience these fine officers any longer.” He nodded once to Daniels and brushed past them both to squat next to the outline of the body, eyes glittering intensely. “Who came upon the body?” he called, reaching forward with a long finger to trace along an outline in the snow.

“That would be Collins,” said Daniels, moving to peer over Holmes’ shoulder curiously. “This was his beat.”

“And what time was the discovery made?” Holmes did not look up from the ground.

“Around nine-thirty,” Lestrade said, peering over Holmes’ other shoulder. “I told you last night that I heard the whistle.”

“Yes, I recall. Thank you, Lestrade. Is Constable Collins here now?”

Daniels looked startled. “Yes, he is. Inspector Lestrade seemed to think it was necessary for him to be here.”

Holmes stood up. “Excellent. Well done, Lestrade.” He favored the shorter man with a smile before turning sharply toward Daniels. “I will need to speak to Collins, Inspector.”

“If you think it necessary,” said Daniels stiffly. “I will get him for you.”

Holmes watched for a moment as the policeman left, then turned to Lestrade. “Is he always such a pleasant fellow?” he asked lightly.

“As far as I know,” replied Lestrade. “Though to be fair, he is quite competent.”

“As far as these things go,” murmured Holmes, then smiled patiently at Lestrade. “What conclusions have you drawn from your observations?”

Lestrade frowned consideringly at the impression in the snow. “Well,” he said slowly, “From the marks on the body, which you shall see shortly, and the fact that the fellow’s trousers were so sloppily fastened, it would seem that he had frequented one of the houses of ill repute in this area.” He glanced at Holmes to see the other man’s reaction.

Holmes chuckled. “There may be some merit in that, my dear Lestrade, but we are still wanting for facts. Ah, and here is Constable Collins! Hello, Constable, I’ve a few questions for you about the events of last night.”

Collins, a fresh faced young man of around twenty, looked uncomfortable as he answered. “I will of course do whatever I can to be of service,” he said with a glance at Daniels.

“Splendid, splendid,” said Holmes, holding up a finger in front of his lips thoughtfully. “I wonder, Constable, if you could tell me what position the body was in when you found it last night?”

The man gave Daniels another nervous glance, and at the inspector’s nod said, “Well, sir, I was walking my beat-just along Union here, when I noticed something in the alleyway. I went to have a closer look, and found the bloke lying on his face. He had a right nasty gash in the back of his head. You saw it, Inspector. You weren’t but a few moments behind me.” Collins looked to Lestrade nervously.

Lestrade nodded. “It’s just as he says, Mr. Holmes. He was lying face down with a blow to the base of his skull.”

“However,” Daniels interjected, “We do not believe that he was killed in the street.”

“No, of course not,” said Holmes. “There are no signs of a struggle. Nor is there enough blood to indicate the blow was struck at the scene. However, there are a few points of interest that I have observed.”

“And what are those?” asked Daniels derisively, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“Our victim was killed by a man with a height of about six feet who wears thick soled, well made boots with a rather square toe. It appears from his footmarks that he carried the victim into this alleyway from the street. From the right side, to be exact. He then stood behind and to the left of the victim for some time, if the depth and slight changes in the footmarks are any indication.”

“Doing what?” asked Lestrade before he could stop himself.

“I’ve no idea. However, I do not think we shall learn anything more here, as the traffic in the area has made any attempt to identify a cab or carriage impossible. It was very good of you to keep the scene clear, Inspector. Constable, I thank you for your time. You are sure you saw no one in the street while walking your beat?”

“I saw no one, except for a pair of women walking further up. But sir, they were coming from the opposite direction.”

“Heading home after a day’s work,” Daniels broke in. “They sell flowers near Aldgate. I have already inquired.”

“Thank you, Constable, Inspector. Lestrade, I think we can be off. You did say we have permission to visit the mortuary?”

“Yes,” said Lestrade. “They were told to expect us sometime this morning.”

“Then we must not keep them waiting. Good day, gentlemen.” Holmes turned away with a twirl of his walking stick and headed toward his waiting cab. Lestrade hurried after him without a backward glance at the two officers. He opened his mouth to speak, but Holmes held up a hand. “A moment, Lestrade, if you don’t mind.”

Lestrade sat back in the cab with a sigh and waited for Holmes to speak. The other man’s silences never failed to try his patience, which was thin on the best of days. Holmes had an infuriating way of withholding valuable information, only to reveal it with a flourish later, and usually at Lestrade’s expense. The policeman stared out the windows as the cab rushed past the slums, wondering grimly when Holmes would ask the inevitable question which would lead to the evidence Lestrade himself had missed.

It did not come. The remainder of the ride was silent, apart from Holmes’ long, white fingers drumming a rhythm on his walking stick. The sound grated at Lestrade’s nerves, and he glanced over at the other man with every intention of telling him so. The words, however, died on his lips as he noticed the slow, repetitive motions of Holmes’ fingers and the way they curled delicately around the long stick. The sound became secondary and Lestrade found himself transfixed by that rhythm. It went in threes, then a short staccato, and then two more. Holmes himself seemed completely unaware of the motions, for when Lestrade chanced a glance at his face, he appeared to be staring dreamily ahead. The smaller man looked back at those long white hands, and then quickly away. His face felt flushed. He turned toward the window, hoping the cold air would do something to relieve the sudden heat flaring within him. The drumming continued, growing deafening as Lestrade tried hard not to think of those hands. He reminded himself sternly that merely contemplating such thoughts was grounds for arrest under the law, and that Holmes in particular was only slightly more approachable than an angry badger. A cautious sidelong glance at the taller man revealed his cold, hawkish profile, rendered harsh in the stark daylight. Holmes was not a handsome man, Lestrade noted absently as he covertly gazed upon the hard features. He was rather homely, even, in this light, with his sunken, gleaming eyes and his thin mouth. The observation did little to ease the flush, and Lestrade was for once glad of the bracing air as they exited the cab.

“This way,” he said, puffing up his shoulders in an unconscious attempt to make himself taller. “I believe the coroners are the only ones in the city who are glad of such foul weather, don’t you think, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes swept past him calmly and went through the doorway without deigning to respond. Lestrade followed him into the mortuary, his mouth set in a grim smile. There were moments, he reflected, in which he hated the amateur detective more than any other man on earth. The whitewashed walls and antiseptic smell of the building provided a bitter contrast with the images which had plagued him in the cab, and he quickened his pace to keep up with Holmes.

“Here is the body,” he said as they rounded a corner and came upon an examining room. As Holmes stepped up to the table and drew the sheet back, Lestrade drifted toward the counter along the edge of the room. He picked up the box containing the dead man’s belongings and studied them. This was the first he had seen of them. The brothel tokens were unsurprising, as were the sovereigns and notes. Clearly, the man had been out for a night of pleasure that had gone rather badly. Still, Lestrade had to admit it was a lot of money to be carrying in such a seedy part of town. He pursed his lips, chewing at the bottom one lightly as he noted the man had no identification on his person. It was all rather baffling.

Holmes’ triumphant exclamation startled him, and he nearly dropped the box before he regained himself. He turned around and stared in horror.

Holmes had moved the dead man onto his face and was studying his posterior with a curiously satisfied expression. As Lestrade watched, he raised his walking stick and landed a rather sharp blow to the upper part of the victim’s back.

“Good Lord, Holmes!” Lestrade uttered in outrage, setting the box back onto the counter.

Holmes merely held up a hand for silence, and then bent close to the body, peering at the blow he had landed on the dead man. “Half of these marks were produced after this man was already dead!” he cried, beckoning Lestrade over. “Come, come, look at this! This blow I just landed-” he pointed with a long finger toward the reddish mark on the man’s shoulder- “has not bruised in the slightest. Neither have several of these. It is true that there has been some injury to the victim before he was killed, but the majority of these marks were made just after death.”

Lestrade stared down at the victim skeptically. “They would have to have been made immediately following his death,” he said with a glance at Holmes, “as they are nearly the same color as the others. That is what you are basing this theory of yours on, correct? The color of the marks?”

“Yes, Lestrade,” said Holmes, pursing his lips impatiently. “And I tell you they were made after death.”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. “Then what do you make of it?”

“A few things. Trivialities. Nothing that would interest you, Lestrade.” Holmes favored him with a patronizing smile and rolled the dead man onto his back once again. “Have you an identity for our unfortunate friend?”

“No.” Lestrade glared at the taller man’s back. “I do, however, have some idea as to his business in Whitechapel.” He moved to the counter and produced the brothel coins, feeling a flush of triumph that he had discovered something of value.

Holmes gazed at them for a moment and then let out a hearty laugh.

“Well, that’s all very good for you!” cried Lestrade angrily. “What else fits the facts as we know them?”

“My dearest Lestrade,” said Holmes, still chuckling, “forgive me. These do throw some light on the matter, of course.”

“Then you agree the murder was somehow related to whatever establishment gave him this token?”

Holmes gave an enigmatic smile. “I did not say that, Lestrade.” He brushed past the policeman as he leaned over the box, causing Lestrade to shiver slightly.

“What, then?” he asked roughly, glaring up at Holmes.

“Well, it is possible that our man did visit such a place, but these tokens prove nothing. They also do not account for the marks inflicted after death.”

“Perhaps the murderer had some grievance against him,” suggested Lestrade, looking into the box. “It would account for the violence of the attack, as well as the continued beating after death.”

Holmes made a soft dissenting sound. “But then,” he asked quietly, “why would our man carry the body into an alleyway and linger after the deed was done? No, Lestrade, those marks are deliberate.” He reached a thin finger into the box and pushed the gold coins around thoughtfully. “This is an awful lot of money to take into Whitechapel,” he mused.

“Yes, I thought that curious as well.” Lestrade rolled his shoulders back, bracing himself against the rush of heat those hands aroused within him. “It is more than would be needed for an excursion to such a house.”

Holmes’ lips quirked and he shot Lestrade a mischievous glance. “Indeed, my dear Lestrade?” he murmured, still smirking. “But you are right. This is too much money, unless of course our murder victim was purchasing a rather more exotic service than is usually offered at such places.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “That _would_ account for the marks and their locations,” he said slowly, curling his lip in distaste. “Though why any man would throw good money away to be whipped with a birch is beyond my comprehension.”

“It was a riding crop,” said Holmes absently, reaching past Lestrade to pick up one of the tokens.

Lestrade made a choked sound of distress. “I suppose you can tell from the marks?”

“Yes.” Holmes held up the token between his thumb and forefinger and examined it closely, narrowing his keen eyes. “And it is of importance. Not all the bruises were inflicted with the crop. Some were done with a cane, Lestrade, and most of those before the man’s death. It stands to reason, then, that the fellow was beaten by two different people that night, does it not?”

“You have lost me. Each new fact seems to muddy the whole thing up!” Lestrade gazed up at Holmes with frustration, his dark eyes narrowed with an effort to see that which seemed so obvious to the younger, cleverer man who took such delight in making a fool of him.

“On the contrary, Lestrade.” Holmes lowered the token in a sudden movement and smiled at Lestrade, his face alight with excitement. “It illuminates things beautifully. Let us suppose that the murderer wished to convey the appearance of some indiscretion that had got out of hand. How better to do so than by making it seem that the beating was far more severe than it had in fact been?”

“I was wondering when your theories were going to pop up,” Lestrade said heavily, crossing his arms over his thin chest.

“Give me some time, my dear Lestrade. I am certain I can make it plain to you.” Holmes tossed the token into the air, and caught it in his fist with a cat-like quickness again before he turned away to pace the length of the room. His features were transformed; like last night in Baker Street, he was once again the passionate bloodhound hot on the scent. The gray eyes gleamed as he prowled the room like a caged tiger and his lips moved faintly as he struggled to slow his thoughts and tame them into speech.

It struck Lestrade suddenly that he looked beautiful, as deadly as some great cat, and a hundred times as clever. The lithe, graceful gait of his walk was distinctly feline, for all the quivering excitement of the hound which marked his usual state of pursuit. He was most definitely on a scent, and Lestrade felt a stab of mingled horror and desire to witness it. God help him if he should ever be the focus of that single-minded, devilish energy.

“I fancy a trip to Kensington may be useful to us,” mused Holmes, pulling Lestrade violently from his impure reverie.

“Kensington?” he asked with astonishment.

Holmes nodded, pacing back toward him and still holding the token up to the light. “Yes, indeed, my dear Lestrade.” He stopped a short distance in front of the policeman, looking down at him with a mischievous smile. “I would take you with me, but I fear you would make a terrible mess of things should I do so.”

Lestrade’s considerable temper flared at that. “You do, do you, Mr. Holmes? Perhaps you had best inform me of this little errand of yours before you decide that I will bungle it so horribly!”

The tall man’s eyebrows rose a bit on his forehead, but he merely smiled. “I think not. However, if you come around to Baker Street at nine o’ clock tomorrow evening, I shall be able to shed some light on the matter. Perhaps then you will understand why I cannot bring you with me now.” He gave Lestrade a kindly look, but, noting the way the small man’s dark eyes flashed at him, let out an impatient sigh. “I ask you to trust me, Lestrade.”

The policeman stared at him for a long moment, painfully aware that he was being unspeakably rude. He said nothing, trying instead to read Holmes’ intentions in his face. The detective’s flared nostrils and gleaming eyes revealed nothing except a resolution in regard to his purpose. Holmes met his stare evenly, his brows knitting together faintly. He tilted his head a bit to the side, as though studying Lestrade with a new interest.

“I did not say you would bungle it,” he said suddenly, and Lestrade jumped in spite of the softness in his voice. “I merely meant that your duty would of course require you to interfere with my plans, and I cannot have that.”

It was Lestrade’s turn to frown. “You should not tell me these things, Mr. Holmes,” he said slowly. “You know we tolerate your trespasses at the Yard because you are so useful to us, but you still ought to take care what you say.”

Holmes laughed. The sound echoed weirdly around the tiled, somber walls. “It is not what I mean to do, my dear Lestrade, but where I intend to go. Rest assured that I will uphold the law in every particular. You’ve nothing to fear.”

“Where you intend to- But he was murdered in Whitechapel!” Lestrade threw his hands in the air, then cursed himself a moment later for losing his temper.

“His body was discovered in Whitechapel,” said Holmes, grinning at Lestrade’s show of temper, “but that hardly means he spent his evening there. No, I cannot tell you more, Lestrade, but rest assured that the East End is not the only part of London in which these atrocities take place.”

“I am aware.” Lestrade ground his teeth. He did not like the idea of Holmes in such a place, surrounded by filth and obscenities. The legalities of it were troubling enough, but when joined with the persistent whisper in the back of his mind, the one that had become inexplicably aware of the man, it was nearly unbearable.

Holmes merely chuckled. “Well then. I’ve no time to lose. Good day, Lestrade. Do let me know if you learn anything before tomorrow evening, would you?” He nodded and, stepping around Lestrade, left the room. The sound of his steps echoed across the tile floors, masking the deep, shaking breath which Lestrade had taken to keep himself from shuddering as the other man’s gloved hand brushed his sleeve.

The distant slam of the door was followed by silence, louder and more oppressive than even the stifling confines of the cab. Lestrade closed his eyes, biting his lips to hold back the groan that built in his throat. This was unacceptable, completely unacceptable. He had passed by men more attractive, and far more approachable, than Holmes in the years since he had joined the force, and he had never been the worse for it. The urges had always passed, and when they had, the feeling of triumph, the satisfaction of knowing he was the master of his own perverse nature, had been far more rewarding than any sinful indulgence. It was that very self control that allowed him to do his duty when dealing with other deviants. Their weaknesses were contemptible, even shameful, when he knew perfectly well that they were capable of resisting the temptation.

God in heaven help him now, though, because he had never before been so moved by another man.

\---

The rooms at Baker Street were empty when Lestrade let himself in the next evening. That landlady had the patience of a saint to allow visitors into her home at all hours without so much as blinking. He shuddered to think of the things Holmes put her through. The memory of a broken window and the snarling, struggling Jefferson Hope flashed across his consciousness and he shook his head. That, when taken in combination with the bullet-pocks in the wall, made him wonder just how much Holmes paid the good lady. Whatever the amount, it was hardly enough. A grim smile curled his lips as he delicately toed some papers out of his way before making his way over to the settee. Really, it was a pity Dr. Watson was no longer able to act as a civilizing influence on Holmes. Lestrade could not recall seeing the room in more disarray.

As he took a seat on the sofa, he glanced at the open ledger on the floor before him. It appeared to be some sort of index. Lestrade’s quick, dark eyes widened as he read a portion of the top entry:

 _Merridew, nee Burke, Flora._ Madam. Born London, circa 1855. Parents unknown. Close associate of Mary Jeffries. Fled to the Continent to evade Scotland Yard during her confederate’s trial. Returned 1886. Married in secret to Sir John Merridew. Resides in Kensington. Premises: Church Street.

Lestrade stared at the entry with some shock. The name of Merridew was known to him. Sir John was the second son of one of the most respected families in London. By all accounts, the man was a confirmed bachelor and resided in Pall Mall so that he could be near his club. Holmes was surely going too far in supposing that such a man should have married a fallen woman. It was unthinkable. He shook his head despairingly and sat back, hoping Holmes returned soon to shed some light on the proceedings, as he himself was hopelessly lost.

The wait was a long one, and Lestrade felt himself beginning to nod off. Holmes kept his rooms heated to the point of discomfort, and the stifling atmosphere induced drowsiness at the late hour. The door opened just as the clock struck eleven, making Lestrade jump and blink stupidly at the tall, dark haired man in the doorway.

Holmes paused, looking somewhat uncomfortable to see Lestrade sitting on the sofa. “Ah,” he said delicately. “Do forgive me for being late. I was detained.”

“Such things are unavoidable,” offered Lestrade generously, peering at Holmes with some curiosity. He himself was rather ashamed to be caught napping in another man’s home, but Holmes seemed just as embarrassed.

“Quite. Would you be so kind as to allow me another few moments? I should prefer a set of clean clothes.”

Lestrade nodded. “Of course.” He watched Holmes make his way across the room, sidestepping piles of paper with the agility of a mountain goat. The feline grace of yesterday morning was gone, though. Indeed, Holmes seemed to be taking extraordinary care not to move more than absolutely necessary as he picked his way back to his bedroom. Lestrade stared hard at the closed door, his quick, dark eyes narrowing suspiciously as he considered the evidence before him. How many times had he recalled Holmes telling him to deduce, to make use of his observations? An unpleasant smile, devoid of any humor, curled Lestrade’s lips at the irony of it. Holmes had all but admitted where he intended to go, and now came home bearing the signs of a good thrashing. The line of reasoning was solid, in Lestrade’s eyes. He would go so far as to call it elementary. Holmes could hardly disagree.

With the conclusion came a great wave of fury, and Lestrade actually balled his hands into fists before he regained his self control. Holmes, the damnable man, had gone into one of those places, and allowed them to flog him, and then God only knew what had gone on. Lestrade was afraid to shut his eyes, knowing that the images would plague him should he do so. Had Holmes enjoyed it? Would the detective return to the place after the case was over? Was there a particular girl there that had caught his fancy? A fine thought, that. Holmes despised women and made no secret of it. This, however, was the first time Lestrade had ever given the fact any consideration. If he so disliked women, did that in fact mean his interests turned to his own sex? Lestrade’s hands clenched again. The thought of Holmes being bound by a woman was abhorrent. The thought of him bound by a man was intolerable. In fact, the idea of the masterful detective submitting to anyone’s abuses in such a manner stuck in Lestrade’s craw. This was Sherlock Holmes, and a man like that simply did not submit to anyone.

Lost as he was in thought, Lestrade did not immediately notice Holmes step back into the sitting room. The other cleared his throat delicately, and, with a start, Lestrade looked up into Holmes’ eyes. He saw the taller man’s expression flare with dismay for an instant, and he dropped his gaze furiously. Damn it all, Holmes had startled him so that he had been unable to conceal his errant thoughts.

“Well, Lestrade, you are coming along nicely,” Holmes finally said with a rather shaky laugh, his eyes darting nervously about the room despite his cavalier tone.

Lestrade stared intently at the floor, keeping his voice flat. “Why?”

“There was nothing for it. I hardly wanted to arouse suspicion in such an establishment.” Lestrade could feel Holmes’ gaze on him. It felt oddly heavy, perhaps due to the thick air of the room. He still did not look up.

“I see. And did you learn anything of value?” He took a measured breath, hoping his temper, legendary at the Yard, would hold. He had no right to feel so passionately about the affair, which as far as he knew would help gather all the threads into their hands. That did not stop his hands from trembling as they fought not to clench again.

“I did,” said Holmes in a quiet voice. Lestrade noted distantly that his voice held none of its usual triumph. Indeed, he sounded rather subdued.

It was enough to make Lestrade raise his eyes again. Holmes hovered with his long, graceful hands upon the back of the chair nearest the fire. In the buttery light of the gas lamps, he looked deeply shaken. Lestrade stared at him in open shock. He had known Holmes for over ten years now, and had seen the amateur detective flushed with triumph, or serene in his armchair in this very sitting room, and even the black oppression of what Watson’s stories referred to as ennui. He had never, though, seen Holmes look apprehensive. It horrified him.

“Well then, what was it?” he asked, in what he hoped was a normal tone of voice.

The wry smile that ghosted across the other man’s lips informed him that he had failed miserably. “The marks on the victim’s body were made with a bamboo cane, two and a half feet in length, and very flexible, I daresay. It was wielded by a very charming lady whose name I regret to say I did not obtain, but with very specific results. I confirmed the match just now.”

Lestrade nodded, feeling the most obscene urge to confirm the match himself. The thought took him by surprise, and he looked away immediately, feeling his face heat up.

“Unfortunately, this evidence is hardly admissible for a jury,” resumed Holmes with a touch of dry humor. “I am, however, certain that the victim did indeed visit that very house. There is more to be learned from woman who runs the place, Lestrade. Mark my words.”

“You cannot go back there!” Lestrade leapt to his feet in horror.

Holmes looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Look what they have done to you!” cried Lestrade, gesturing wildly. “You cannot tell me you mean to return to that place and let them-” He snapped his mouth shut with an audible click and set his jaw. “I will not allow it, Mr. Holmes.”

The tall man regarded him silently for a long moment, studying his face with an intensity that made Lestrade blush. Then his thin lips curved into a surprisingly gentle smile. “You would stop me, Lestrade?” he asked softly.

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “If you think I shall stand by and allow you to put yourself at the mercy of these _deviants_ , you have got another think coming,” he snarled. “I should have stopped you tonight as it is.”

“But you did not.” Holmes still regarded him patiently.

“No, because you assured me that you would uphold the law! How was I to know you were planning such a desperate measure? It is absolutely out of the question that you should ever return to that place!”

“I have plans to see the madam tomorrow,” said Holmes calmly. “I mean to catch this murderer of yours, Lestrade, even if it does inconvenience me.”

“Inconvenience?” shrieked Lestrade. “You cannot sit down! I should call that rather more than an inconvenience! However did you manage the cab ride here?”

Holmes chuckled. “It wasn’t pleasant, I assure you.”

“This is not funny!” Lestrade stared at the other man helplessly. “Doctor Watson would never stand for this sort of thing!”

He did not realize the blow had been struck until he saw Holmes go white. The pale fingers tightened on the back of the chair, and Lestrade heard the loud snap of the cane-backing as though it were a gunshot. They faced each other in silence, Holmes tense and still, Lestrade flushed and trembling.

“You are right there, no doubt,” said Holmes softly, “But he would never presume to stop me from returning.”

Lestrade’s dark eyes narrowed, and a dangerous spark erupted in his brain at the way Holmes paled at the mention of the doctor. “If he did, you would heed him, wouldn’t you?”

Holmes’ eyes flew to his face, his dark brows furrowing. God only knew what he read in Lestrade’s expression. The policeman’s thoughts were in such a frenzied state that he hardly knew how to feel at the moment. All of it, the unwelcome attraction, the outrage at the liberties upon Holmes’ person, the detective’s damnably high-handed manner, and the thousands of insults Holmes had laid at his door for years now, most of them accurate, threatened to burst forth in the most regrettable manner.

“Yes,” whispered Holmes, his eyes fixed on Lestrade’s face.

Fury burst white-hot in Lestrade’s belly, stealing the breath from his throat. “I think I should be going,” he whispered back, his hands trembling, “since there is nothing left for me to do here.” He turned, his back straight as a rod, and marched toward the door, taking his hat off the stand so violently that it swayed precariously.

“Wait!” Holmes’ cry stopped him with his hat halfway to his head. He stilled, lowering his hand to his side as he took in a steadying breath. The rational part of his mind informed him loudly that retreat was the wisest option open to him, but he crushed it ruthlessly. It was a hardship, even before this week, to deny Holmes anything he asked.

“What is it?” he asked stiffly, keeping his back to the taller man.

Holmes was silent for so long that Lestrade actually turned to face him, only to find that he stood considerably closer than the small man anticipated. His cheeks flushed, only half in indignation, and he raised his chin defiantly. “What is it?” he repeated.

It was a stupid question, even by his standards. The invitation in Holmes’ eyes was obvious to any who knew to look for it, as Lestrade, much to his shame, did. Bold as brass, to offer such a thing to a policeman, but after all, Holmes feared nothing.

Lestrade stared for a long moment, feeling fire coursing through his veins. The offer was there, hanging unspoken between them in the stifling air and lending its weight to the oppressive atmosphere. His mouth was dry, and as he swallowed, his throat clicked audibly. There was an answering spark in Holmes’ eyes that did little to help. His breath left him in a shuddering sigh, and at the same moment Holmes stepped forward, raising his beautiful hand to trace his fingertips across Lestrade’s cheek in ghost of a caress.

The small man froze at the touch, his eyes darkening further as the pupils dilated with lust. Holmes watched him with a gentle expression as he slipped a single finger down Lestrade’s jaw and along the edge of his collar, eliciting a sharp gasp from the policeman. Triumph gleamed in those gray eyes, and Holmes’ smile curled his lips as he bent his head in satisfaction.

It was enough to bring Lestrade back to his senses. He gasped, and, feeling as though he had been drenched with cold water, violently shoved the taller man away. He took a step back, stumbling over the mess on the floor and catching his footing with some difficulty. After a tense moment, he risked a look at the other man. Holmes had his head down, his dark hair falling in a disorderly fringe over his eyes. He was very still.

Lestrade turned as fast as he could and fled, taking the stairs two at a time and shoving past the maid without a word. It was not until he had climbed into the first available cab and sat back that he realized the brim of his hat was completely crushed.

\---

A telegram from the Yard drew him out of bed early, despite his lack of sleep the previous night. In truth, he was glad for it. The feverish dreams that had kept him from any rest were just as likely to continue in the daylight as in darkness. Lestrade sadly regarded his ruined bowler hat, and with a sigh pulled his top hat from the peg. It did not suit him as well, but he could make due. The bowler had been in need of a good brushing in any case.

Once he had procured a cab, Lestrade pulled the telegram out of his pocket and looked it over thoughtfully. It appeared that Daniels of the H Division was waiting at the Yard with some information about the dead man. Lestrade’s mouth turned down at the corners as he looked at Gregson’s name at the bottom of the paper. He would surely look the part of the fool now, being unable to use Holmes’ information from last night.

The remainder of the cab ride was spent trying to put Holmes firmly out of his mind, and by the time he got out at the Yard Lestrade felt confident that he could conduct himself appropriately even in the event that Holmes showed up in his office.

“Good morning,” he said brusquely as he passed Constable MacPherson, who jumped and looked after him wildly. Lestrade knew it was cruel to torment the Constables, but after the night he had had, the feeling of control was one he relished. It was, he knew, about to end unceremoniously.

“Lestrade.” Gregson had stationed himself near the door to Lestrade’s office. The blond man looked as insufferably smug as ever as he surveyed Lestrade’s no doubt haggard face.

“Gregson,” Lestrade returned sullenly, narrowing his dark eyes. “I was told Inspector Daniels had come down. Where is he?”

“I tried to convince him to stay, but he received a telegram about fifteen minutes ago concerning some brawl that had gotten out of hand near Buck’s Row. He has turned the case over to you on the advice of Mr. Holmes, and with the permission of the Chief Inspector. You were there for the entirety of the investigation, and he has his hands full in that bin he’s been assigned.”

Lestrade stared in open astonishment for a brief moment, but quickly drew himself up, raising his chin to meet Gregson’s gaze. “Very well. What information did Daniels have for me?”

“He just this morning discovered this card a few houses away from where the body was found.” Gregson held the battered thing out, his lip curled in distaste. Lestrade took it with a raised eyebrow and looked it over. It was indeed a gentleman’s card, and well made, though the snow and mud had not been kind to it.

“Mr. Robert Hayworth,” he read aloud, his brows drawing together. “I see. Thank you.”

Gregson gave him a rather patronizing look. “I don’t envy you getting to tell the man’s family the news. In truth, Lestrade, I’ve no doubt Daniels was more than happy to wash his hands of this one. The whole of it is undoubtedly confounding, and if it were not for Mr. Holmes’ involvement, I should despair of ever reaching the bottom of it.”

Lestrade’s mouth curled into a cruel smile. “Then it is fortunate that I have been placed in charge of it, Mr. Gregson. I have a very clear idea of where it is going.” He watched with some satisfaction as Gregson’s eyes widened for a moment before the big man caught hold of himself.

“No doubt,” Gregson sneered. “Still, I am glad for our sake that Mr. Holmes is part of it.” He pushed off the wall and, with a final dismissive look at Lestrade, walked away toward his own office.

Lestrade stared at the card for another moment, then let out a sigh. It was a relief, in truth, to be handed the case, for only then could he receive any accolades for his part. Daniels was a fine policeman, but the H Division really did not have time for mysteries, not with so much strife in their own part of town. He pocketed the card and entered his office. He needed to get the address of Mr. Robert Hayworth immediately, and find out what, if any, connection he had with Sir John Merridew and his nefarious wife.

As it turned out, luck was with him. Robert Hayworth was indeed well connected, and by noon Lestrade was on his way to Pall Mall with a short but decisive list of people to interview. The Beaconsfield Club was the point at which Lestrade had decided to start, as Hayworth had been a member. After the proper introductions, Lestrade was able to obtain a list of the club’s members. He scanned the ledger carefully, searching for Merridew’s name. It took a very short time to locate it.

A few hours and several valuable inquiries later, Lestrade was on his way to Baker Street with some trepidation. He had wired ahead, so as to warn Holmes that he would be there strictly for business, but the flutter of apprehension in the pit of his stomach would not be banished. It intensified as he got out of the cab in front of the pale brick building, but he remained admirably calm as he gave his regards to the poor maid, who stared at him in undisguised curiosity. Lestrade avoided her gaze and made his way up the stairs to the very room he had fled so abruptly last night.

Holmes was standing near the fire, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He was turned away from Lestrade, so that the policeman had to clear his throat awkwardly a few times. When he finally looked over, it was with a derisive expression Lestrade recognized all too well. “I received your wire. What did you find?”

Lestrade rolled his shoulders back and puffed out his chest, considering his words as he rocked back on his heels. “I have managed to identify the murder victim,” he said slowly, glancing at Holmes’ face with a faint hope of seeing approval there.

The taller man blinked. “Have you? Excellent, Lestrade, you really are very fine. How did you manage that?”

Lestrade colored to the tips of his ears. “Inspector Daniels found this card some distance from the body,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping as he pulled it from the pocket of his waistcoat.

“Ah.” A world of sarcasm lay in that single syllable. Holmes held out a hand for the item in question, wiggling his quick, nervous fingers in impatience. “May I examine it?”

“I have it right here,” snapped Lestrade, making no move to hand it off.

Holmes finally turned all the way toward him, his expression incredulous.

Lestrade merely looked at him, holding the card. He raised his eyebrows.

Holmes’ lips parted slightly before he shut his mouth with a snap. With the dignified air of an offended cat, he made his way in silence over to Lestrade and plucked the card out of his outstretched fingers. He turned away quickly, though not, to Lestrade’s intense satisfaction, without a wince of pain.

“He and Sir John Merridew are both members of the Beaconsfield Club,” said Lestrade as Holmes looked over the card carefully. “Merridew was not at the club when I went to inquire there today.”

Holmes held the card up to the window, studying it intensely. “I had deduced it from my own investigations. Did you tell anyone you had particular interest in Sir John?”

Lestrade bit back a growl. “No. I thought it best to keep that quiet for now. If he is innocent in this matter, it is not my business to reveal his marriage to his peers.”

Holmes chuckled. “We all must keep our secrets, mustn’t we, Lestrade?” He brought the card to his nose and smelled it.

Lestrade flushed deeply, but glared at the detective. “So it seems, Mr. Holmes. I can see you have learned something from the card.”

“Nothing new. It merely reiterates the fact that Mr. Hayworth was a guest of Lady Merridew’s the night he was killed. Her perfume is a very distinctive blend of orange and cinnamon and comes from Italy. I can smell it on this card. No, Lestrade, I already knew of the connection between Lady Merridew and Mr. Hayworth.”

“Then the card is of no use at all.” Lestrade looked into the fire, disappointed.

“It confirmed the name of the victim. I should say that is a noble enough purpose. However, I think if we wish to get to the heart of the matter, we must talk to the lady at the very center of it.”

“Who?” asked Lestrade in astonishment. “You cannot mean Lady Merridew.”

“The very woman. I daresay she shall recognize me from last night, but there is nothing for it. I have called her here at three o’ clock and, I suspect, she will be able to provide us with some evidence against her husband.”

“Why on earth should she do that?”

“Because,” said Holmes simply, “he intends to throw her over. I have done some research on Sir John Merridew, and apart from his secret marriage, he has tenuous connections with some of the worst people in London. I would have hardly believed it myself if the proof were not irrefutable. Unfortunately, none of my evidence can be used before a magistrate, as it was gathered from less than reputable sources.”

“Are you referring to those street Arabs of yours?” asked Lestrade curiously. The ragged band of boys never failed to salute him in the most mocking fashion when he passed them on the way to visit Holmes.

“The Baker Street Irregulars?” Holmes looked amused. “My dear Lestrade, my informants would desert me in an instant if I revealed their names to an official detective. Your curiosity does you credit, but I really must hold my tongue.”

Lestrade pursed his lips unhappily, but could not but concede that Holmes’ discretion had its merits, especially in light of what had transpired between them last night. His face warmed again, and he was supremely glad that Holmes was still examining the card. With the exception of a fleeting, hazy flash of desire once for Gregson’s smirking, arrogant face in the darkness of a seedy alley ten years ago, he had never had any interest in a man with whom he had a professional relationship. It was extremely disconcerting to try to concentrate on Holmes’ words when his lips commanded rather more attention. Lestrade found a part of himself wishing that he had not shoved Holmes away from him last night. An impatient sigh escaped him before he caught himself.

Holmes turned to look at him, his eyebrows rising on his forehead as he regarded the smaller man. Lestrade stared into the fire for a moment longer, and then gathered his courage and raised his eyes to the other man’s face. His breath caught at the heat he observed in those normally cold eyes. An answering fire rose in his blood; he became painfully aware of the way Holmes’ pale hands clenched at his sides, and the way those firm lips trembled very slightly as the detective took a soft, shaking breath. Lestrade felt himself leaning slightly forward, the desire to be nearer to Holmes’ tall, lanky frame carrying his body closer without conscious thought.

Holmes took a step forward then, his eyes blazing, but then suddenly he stopped and looked sharply at the clock above the fireplace. Annoyance flashed across his features, and with a snarled curse turned away from Lestrade again. “It is nearly three o’clock, Lestrade. Lady Merridew shall be here momentarily, and while I doubt very much that we could shock her, I should prefer it if we maintain some respectability while we are investigating her husband for murder.”

“I agree,” breathed Lestrade, closing his eyes and taking a seat in the nearest chair. When he opened his eyes again, Holmes was looking at him with a curious expression on his face.

“What?” he asked brusquely.

Holmes chuckled and reached for his clay pipe. “Another time, perhaps, my dearest Lestrade. I think I hear the bell. Yes! I do. That will be the lady herself!”

The faint sound of a footstep upon the stair made Lestrade raise his head and look round to the door. A firm tap was all the warning he received, and then Flora Merridew stepped into the room.

Lestrade was struck first by her beauty. He had expected the sad, half starved wretches of the street when he had thought of the profession to which she belonged, but this was not the case. Her eyes were wide and had a most unique and attractive golden brown color, and her other features were rather sensual for a British woman. Her full lips put him in mind of Spanish or Italian women, even though her blonde hair was distinctly Germanic. Her stature, too, surprised him. It seemed incongruous that so dainty a woman was in fact capable of flogging a gentleman to the extent that it pained him to move the next day. Lestrade was small in stature, but the top of Lady Merridew’s head could hardly come up to his temple. She looked quickly between the two men, and Lestrade observed a slight widening of her eyes as she saw Holmes, though she composed herself instantly.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she said calmly, inclining her head toward the detective. Her speech shocked Lestrade as well, being as refined as any lady’s. Had he not known the truth, he should have supposed her to be thoroughly middle class.

Holmes smiled and glided toward her. “Miss Flora Burke. It was very good of you to come at such short notice. I do hope I did not inconvenience you in any way. Please sit.”

She nodded politely and took a seat on the settee, watching Holmes with a bemused expression. “Before we begin, Mr. Holmes, I should like to know whether your companion will be present for the entire interview. I assume this is the famous Dr. Watson,” she added with a curious look at Lestrade.

He bristled irrationally, and opened his mouth when Holmes cut across him.

“This is my friend and colleague, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. He is here in an unofficial capacity, and can be trusted to be utterly discreet.” Holmes gave the woman a charming smile, and his eyes flicked over Lestrade’s face in a clear warning.

Lestrade felt himself nodding in agreement.

Lady Merridew appeared to debate for a moment, but then nodded. “Very well. I shall trust you then, Mr. Holmes. Now, what is this urgent matter of which you spoke?”

Holmes smiled slightly. “It concerns your husband, madam.”

She sprang to her feet, her expression fierce. “What do you mean, sir?” she cried in such a commanding voice that Lestrade felt suddenly intimidated by this tiny woman. “Explain yourself at once!”

“I mean, Lady Merridew, that I am fully aware of your clandestine marriage to Sir John. A moment, madam!-” for she had opened her mouth to speak again, “I have no inclination to blackmail you, for, as you are no doubt aware, you could as easily return the favor. No, I am far more interested in learning about a Mr. Robert Hayworth. What can you tell me about him?”

Lady Merridew stared at Holmes for several moments, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with anger, but she resumed her seat without further protests. Taking a calming breath, she asked, “Why do you wish to know about Mr. Hayworth? You ought to know that my own discretion is paramount, especially in matters of my profession.”

“And very discreet you have been, madam,” said Holmes with a smile. “But I am afraid Mr. Hayworth has been murdered four days ago.”

All the color washed from her cheeks. “What? Robert, murdered?” She looked up at Holmes, her eyes wide. “How? Who could have done such a thing? He was such a gentle soul!”

Holmes looked grave. “I am afraid, Lady Merridew, that the evidence points to you.”

A startled gasp broke from her throat. “No,” she whispered brokenly. “That is impossible. That is utterly impossible. I tell you, I was fond of Robert! He- oh, he used to make us laugh when he would visit. I cannot believe I am accused of such a thing!” She turned coldly to Lestrade.

“You stand accused of nothing yet,” said Lestrade quietly.

The woman drew herself up with the dignity of a queen. “Then I do not understand what you want with me. Robert was indeed at my establishment four days ago. Our appointment ended at a quarter to eight that evening. He thanked me and left. It was the last that I saw of him.”

“Can anyone confirm that?” asked Holmes calmly.

“Fanny and Nell- two of my girls, Mr. Holmes- were both unengaged at the time and were present as he left. They could doubtless give evidence to that effect, but they could hardly be called unbiased if I am suspected of this hideous crime, could they?”

“They would not be ideal witnesses,” admitted Lestrade, crossing his arms over his chest, “Though it is certainly better than nothing.”

“Has your establishment ever used these?” Holmes asked suddenly, and produced one of the tokens found on Hayworth’s person from his trouser pocket.

Lady Merridew looked at it with undisguised scorn. “Hardly, Mr. Holmes. I do not cater to the working class, as you know, and such an item is far too blatant to be useful or advisable to my clients. Wherever did you get this?”

“It was on Mr. Hayworth’s person when he was killed.”

Her delicate brows furrowed. “I see. Well, if you would let me see it, I can perhaps give you some idea of where it is from. I’m familiar with several places around the city, even if they are lower class than my place. We all came from somewhere, after all.”

Holmes smiled. “There is no need, Lady Merridew. I am already aware that this token comes from a house off Whitechapel High Street. You will forgive the ruse, I am sure, but it always serves to verify the facts. This token has nothing to do with your establishment. Make note of that, Lestrade.”

Lestrade pulled out his notebook and sat forward, frowning intently. “You know, Mr. Holmes, we are still missing a motive. Mr. Hayworth’s finances were all accounted for in my investigation, and he left no outstanding debts when he died. That rules out a financial motive for murder, and according to the men at his club, he was an affable man and well liked. Lady Merridew’s evidence says the same. Why then would anyone kill him?”

“To obtain a marriage without creating scandal,” said Holmes gravely.

Lady Merridew looked at him sharply. “Whatever do you mean?”

Holmes looked at her with the utmost sympathy. “I am afraid, madam, that I shall have to ask you to hold your questions for the moment. Do I hear the bell, Lestrade? I do! Here is the very man.”

As he spoke, the door opened after a terse knock and a robust, handsome young gentleman stepped into the room. His bright blue eyes widened in horror as he looked at the tiny woman on the settee.

“Flora!” he gasped. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

She turned slowly, her eyes locked on his face.

“Ah, Sir John Merridew,” said Holmes cordially, stepping carefully between them with a pleasant smile, “It’s very good of you to come. As you can see, your wife has already granted us an interview. Please take a seat. Cigar?”

“No, thank you,” murmured Sir John, looking again at his wife, whose pretty lips had pursed tightly. When she again said nothing, he sank into a chair and looked at Holmes. “What is going on? I assure you, if you needed to speak to me, you could have left my wife out of it, though how you know about the two of us I cannot imagine.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Flora Merridew in a quiet voice, “What were you about to say before John arrived?”

“Ah, Lady Merridew, there will be time for that later.” Holmes threw her a charming smile as he drifted about the room, pausing to push papers out of his way and to arrange things on the mantle. He stopped at the hat stand for a brief moment, and when he turned back to face the room, his eyes had an energetic gleam that Lestrade could only describe as manic. “First of all, Sir John, I should like to know why you are walking about London with a murder weapon.”

The sound of Flora Merridew’s horrified gasp was nearly covered by the crash as Sir John leapt out of his chair.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he roared.

Lestrade was up in an instant, his hand in his trouser pocket. The pistol was a comforting weight in his hand, and he was suddenly secure in the knowledge that he would use it against this man if the occasion arose.

Holmes merely smiled. “Your walking stick,” he said simply. “I took the opportunity to observe it as I passed the stand. It has traces of blood under the bottommost rim. I imagine you had a devil of a time cleaning it on the ride home from Whitechapel.”

Sir John Merridew looked wildly about the room, his eyes darting between Holmes and his wife, who had risen to her feet and was staring at him with the utmost revulsion.

“Is this true?” she whispered brokenly.

“Flora, no! Why on earth would I do such a thing? I knew Robert as well! We played cards, you know that! I would never raise a hand against him!”

“And yet your boot marks were found in the snow around the body,” murmured Holmes softly, edging back toward the mantle. “I did mention the square toes, did I not, Lestrade?”

Lestrade swallowed and nodded, his eyes fixed on the young man who was staring beseechingly at his wife.

“Flora,” he begged, “Won’t you trust me?”

“She has precious little cause to do that,” snapped Holmes suddenly, “As it was to condemn her that you committed this crime.”

She started, looking round at Holmes. “Explain,” she cried, pointing at the detective. “Explain yourself now!”

“Your husband has been courting the Earl of Liecester’s daughter,” said Holmes, looking at the tiny woman, “for the past three months. His family has been pushing marriage to a respectable lady for far longer than that, but it was not until he met her that he agreed to a match. However, he could not possibly divorce you without scandal, which would lead to his disinheritance. So he thought of a rather clever ploy. He would murder Robert Hayworth, the one man in his social circle who knew about his connection to you, and he would kill him in such a way that you would surely be accused of the crime. You would, naturally, be convicted on the strength of the physical evidence on his person- that cane of yours leaves undeniable marks- and sent to the gallows, leaving him free to wed.”

Flora Merridew said nothing to this momentous announcement. Her face had lost all color, and the delicate hand that pointed so accusingly at Sherlock Holmes trembled violently. With a shaky indrawn breath she turned deliberately to face her husband. Her expression, raw with anguish, was the most wretched sight Lestrade had ever seen.

“John,” she whispered, half pleading, “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me they are mistaken. There is no other woman, I know there is not! You love me.” Her voice broke, and she repeated, “You love me!”

Sir John regarded her warily. “You have some very fanciful theories, Mr. Holmes,” he said finally, addressing the detective, “But I see nothing that goes beyond that.”

Holmes chuckled, a low sound that raised the hair on the back of Lestrade’s neck. “Then you do not see at all. Lady Merridew, what I say is true. Your husband met with Robert Hayworth after he left your establishment and lured him somewhere private. Somewhere between Kensington and Whitechapel, he killed Robert Hayworth with a blow to the head from his walking stick, and made for the first disreputable street he could find. There he dumped the body in an alleyway and proceeded to beat the corpse severely with his riding crop, to further incriminate you. He planted those tokens on the body in order to lead the police to a brothel. He left all of Robert Hayworth’s money in his purse in order to convince them that he was not in fact spending his evening in Whitechapel. You made one blunder though, Sir John. You allowed Mr. Hayworth’s card to fall in the road whilst carrying him out of your carriage. Yes, I know it was your own that you used! Your own footman unwittingly confessed to me two days ago that you had picked up a friend and driven about the night of the murder. Simple man that he is -rather feeble minded, you must understand, Lestrade- he thought nothing of your explanations that your friend was ill and had an appointment in such a rough part of town. Take that with the blood on your stick and the marks of your boots, and I think you will find my evidence goes far beyond fanciful theories.”

Flora Merridew let out a shriek of despair. “How could you?” she screamed at her husband, her beautiful face twisted with rage. “You fiend, how could you do this to me?” She sank into the settee, covering her face with a small hand. “After everything, how could you do this?”

Sir John went white to the lips, though his eyes flashed angrily. “Well, it does seem that you have it all worked out,” he spat at Holmes. “What else is there for it? I wish to God I could have taken it all back, but it is far too late, and Cecily never would have taken me if I’d told her the truth. Had I only been penniless, she would have had me, but she’d have left me instantly if she ever learned about my marriage.”

“Cecily!” shrieked Flora Merridew, looking up with a snarl. “Oh, you villain!”

“It is not I who is to blame for this! You tricked me in Paris, you convinced me that I loved you! I was young, and I hardly realized what a mistake I made!”

“You shall realize it now,” she said in a low voice. “The whole world shall know how you have wronged me. Especially your precious Cecily.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes calmly. “And now, Lestrade, all that remains is for you to place Sir John under arrest while I wire Scotland Yard to tell them of your outstanding work on this case.”

Lestrade nodded and stepped forward, pulling the metal handcuffs from his pocket. “Sir John Merridew, I place you under arrest for the willful murder of Mr. Robert Hayworth. I must warn you that anything you say shall appear in evidence against you.”

It all happened in an instant. Sir John snarled and flung himself toward Lestrade with such speed that the small man could make no move to defend himself. The bigger man’s weight sent him crashing into the table and down through it. He heard Flora Merridew’s incoherent scream mingling with Holmes’ sharp cry, and then he pushed himself up in time to see Merridew grappling with the detective, his murderous hands clutching Holmes’ throat. Holmes gasped for breath, struggling valiantly to break the iron grip that was strangling the breath from his lungs.

Lestrade saw red. Not only had this man done murder once, he had tried to use the force to do his dirty work in the killing of his wife, and now he had laid his hands on Sherlock Holmes. There was a deep gash in his left arm; he could feel the blood wet on his sleeve, but Lestrade felt nothing as he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled the pistol in a smooth, practiced motion. Everything seemed oddly slow as he leapt toward them, though he knew with certainty only moments had passed since the brute had pushed him. With furious snarl, he grabbed Merridew by the collar and yanked him back with all his strength. The man half turned, his teeth bared, and Lestrade slammed the pistol down onto his skull. When the man did not fall, he brought it down again, and watched with savage satisfaction as Merridew’s eyes rolled up in his head. The brute slumped forward, falling onto Holmes, who promptly pushed him off with a look of disgust. The detective sat up, panting.

“Thank you, Lestrade,” he gasped, looking up at the smaller man with a crooked smile.

Lestrade stared at him for an instant, and then dropped to his knees beside Holmes and reached out to grasp his arms, letting the pistol tumble from his free hand. There were ugly bruises forming on Holmes’ throat in the shape of Merridew’s hands, and Lestrade did not quite trust himself to be armed when he considered the sparks of anger that the sight aroused. Holmes was studying him, he realized, with a bemused smile, his gray eyes shining in an unusual fashion.

“Is he dead?” asked Flora Merridew in a soft but admirably calm voice. Lestrade looked over to see her standing next to the fire, gripping a poker in her tiny hand with a practiced ease.

Holmes pushed the errant fringe of hair back from his face and moved to examine Merridew’s limp form. “No,” he answered hoarsely, “merely stunned. He shall have a dreadful headache when he wakes up, Lestrade.” He flashed Lestrade a wide grin.

“I’d be lying if I said I was sorry to hear it.” Lestrade grinned back and rose to his feet. “I do not believe he is going anywhere,” he observed as he looked down at Merridew. “I shall send for the Constables.”

The landlady took the news of the battle upstairs with surprising patience, and seemed more upset by the gash on his arm than by the news that her upstairs rooms had once again been damaged in Holmes’ line of work. She vanished into the back of the house with the promise of bandages and hot water as Lestrade darted onto the street with his whistle. As expected, the Constable on duty arrived within minutes, and Lestrade hastily ordered him to wire the station and send for a cart, along with at least two strong, able-bodied men to assist in the event that Merridew should regain consciousness and prove difficult. Though, reflected Lestrade as the Constable hurried off, he had no objection to simply hitting him with his pistol again. He chuckled darkly to himself and turned back to go back into the house.

Perhaps he was bleeding more than he had originally supposed, but the journey up the stairs to the sitting room seemed to take rather longer than it ought. Lestrade let out a soft sigh of satisfaction as he reached the top, realizing distantly that there were, as a matter of fact, seventeen steps. He had certainly felt each one. He must have barked his leg on the table as he fell, though he had felt nothing at the time.

Flora Merridew’s voice stopped him just short of opening the door to the sitting room. “-really played it very well, Mr. Holmes,” she was saying calmly. “I believed you when you first came in, and would have been completely taken in had it not been for your request.”

Lestrade leaned closer to the door in spite of all his good sense telling him it was foolish.

“My request?” Holmes’ voice was still hoarse, though he sounded amused. “Please, if you would do me the courtesy, explain yourself.”

“You are a masterful man, Mr. Holmes. A very dominant man. Now, it is more common than you think to have such men come to me asking to relinquish their control for a time, so that did not give you away. In fact, until you asked me to begin hard, I had no idea that you were any different from the rest.”

“Do enlighten me,” said Holmes wryly.

“No one who does not have vast experience and a distinct taste for pain asks to begin hard with a cane like that one. I knew the instant the first blow landed that you were not of that ilk. You had no previous stripes, and the further we went, the worse your acting became. I should have asked you your real business then if you had not seemed as though you were going to faint. You see why I ended it so soon.”

Holmes was silent.

Lestrade took a step back from the door, looking away. This conversation was not meant for him, and he had no business lurking in doorways anyhow. He looked rather helplessly around the hall, wondering whether he ought to make some noise to alert them of his approach. He was saved from the decision by the landlady, who came up the stairs bearing towels and a basin of water. She spared Lestrade a curious glance, but said nothing as she knocked at the door and stepped in, ushering him inside. Holmes and Flora Merridew were seated together near the fire, far from the cuffed and unconscious form of Sir John. As Lestrade entered, they both looked up sharply and Holmes leapt to his feet.

“Have that looked at, Lestrade,” he said, eyeing the gash on Lestrade’s arm with some concern. “You’ve soaked your sleeve.”

Lestrade looked down at his arm. The sleeve of his coat was indeed soaked with blood. No wonder the Constable had been so quick about leaving for the station. “It’s nothing,” he said automatically. “With a few stitches, I shall be fine.”

“Well, you had better get it cleaned just the same,” said the landlady, fixing Lestrade with a look that clearly stated she would put up with no nonsense. She set the basin on the table and then went to Flora Merridew and, with her womanly sympathy, took her out of the room with murmured promises of tea.

“It is a pity Watson isn’t here,” murmured Holmes into the silence, and Lestrade looked at him sharply. Their eyes met for a moment before Lestrade turned away.

“A great pity,” he said shortly. “But no matter. Just bind it so I will not bleed all over the cart and I shall have it looked at once I arrive at the station. The Constables are on their way now.”

Holmes said nothing to that, and Lestrade did not turn to face him until he felt the touch on his sleeve. He jumped and looked round then, jerking his arm away with a hiss of pain. The taller man froze and watched warily as Lestrade caught hold of himself and relaxed.

“Sorry,” he muttered, looking down at the splintered remains of the table.

“It’s quite all right,” said Holmes neutrally, and Lestrade slowly raised his eyes. Holmes held a wet cloth in one hand. He looked at Lestrade for a long moment, then turned to survey the room with a dry chuckle. “I appreciate your assistance, you know. Things might have gotten rather out of hand if you had not been here.”

“I did not bungle it too terribly then.” Lestrade gingerly shrugged off his coat and, laying it over the back of a chair, began to roll up his sleeve.

“That will do you little good, my dear Lestrade,” Holmes said quietly. “I think it unlikely that I will be able to reach the wound even if-”

“It will have to do,” snapped Lestrade, wincing as he rolled his sleeve over the crook of his arm, exposing the gash. “How is that?”

Holmes was silent for a moment. “It’s fine,” he said finally, bending close enough to wipe the blood from Lestrade’s arm. “I fear you will need some stitching. It is deep.”

Lestrade shrugged his free shoulder. “It is nothing new to me,” he said simply. “And it is hardly the most serious injury I have taken in the line of duty.”

“Indeed. I should hope whatever doctor set your leg is no longer employed,” said Holmes with a faint smile. It earned him a sharp look.

“And how did you deduce that?” Lestrade snapped.

“Your left foot,” murmured Holmes calmly, “has an inward twist. Since you are an active man, and a member of the police force that accepts only able bodied men among its ranks, I know you were not born crippled. It stands to reason then that you injured yourself in the line of duty some years before making my acquaintance. Your leg was broken, and was badly set by a doctor, which accounts for the twist. It also pains you sometimes, as I have observed you walk with a very slight limp in either cold or damp weather.”

Lestrade stared at Holmes in utter astonishment. “You deduced all that from my foot?” he asked.

Holmes flashed him a brief, pleased smile. “It was elementary, I daresay.”

“Elementary, he says.” Lestrade shook his head, sighing. He supposed he should not feel so pleased at Holmes’ ability to read the minutiae in his form and mannerisms and turn them into a comprehensive biography, but the idea that he warranted such attention was a welcome one. A smile played over his lips as he turned and regarded Holmes.

It was returned as the detective finished cleaning the blood off of his arm and wrapped a bandage securely around it. Holmes’s fingers brushed the inside of Lestrade’s elbow as he finished tying the bandage, and the gentleness in that touch sent a stab of longing through the smaller man. His face flushed hotly, and he turned his head away. A moment later he felt Holmes’ hand on his jaw, turning him back.

“Lestrade,” whispered Holmes, looking down at him with gleaming eyes. He paused for an instant, as though his resolve wavered, and then he bent down and kissed him.

Lestrade let out a muffled sound as the firm lips met his and he moved closer to Holmes, feeling the detective’s arms come around him like iron bands. They burned where they rested, even through his shirt and waistcoat. He raised his own hand, curling it around the back of Holmes’ neck and holding him in place as his lips parted.

Holmes hesitated then, but when Lestrade flicked his tongue across the taller man’s lower lip he let out a surprisingly feral sound and gripped Lestrade so hard it hurt. Lestrade found he did not mind in the slightest, for the noises coming from Holmes’ throat when he licked the corner of his mouth were absolutely delicious. Holmes pulled him tight against his lanky form, forcing Lestrade onto his tiptoes as he collapsed against the other’s body. It was perfect; wonderful and terribly wrong, and Holmes smelled of tobacco and some vile chemical. The combination should have been revolting, but Lestrade found the scent intoxicating. It was rather like the man himself in that regard, and Lestrade smiled against those thin lips as his caresses at the back of Holmes’ neck caused the man to shiver and shift his hips against him. The action drew a rumbling moan from Holmes, and Lestrade felt his breath catch at the sound. It was too much, far too much, and the idea of stopping pained him.

“The Constables will be here soon,” he breathed against Holmes’ mouth, stroking the back of his neck. He knew it was unfair, but the way Holmes gasped and gripped his sides with bruising force thrilled him. Still, he pulled back and looked up into the detective’s face.

Holmes stared at him with glassy eyes. He was breathing hard, his thin chest heaving against Lestrade’s, but as the smaller man watched, some of the wildness left his expression. With a terse nod, he dropped his arms to his sides and took a step back, his face resuming its natural coldness. He said nothing as he turned toward the fire and picked up the clay pipe on the mantle.

Lestrade sank into the nearest chair, wishing that he could appear nearly so composed. There was a long silence between them as Holmes lit his pipe and gracefully stretched across the settee. Lestrade took to looking about the room to distract himself from the awkward atmosphere.

“Perhaps-” he began, at the same moment Holmes lowered his pipe and said, “I rather-”

They stared at each other.

“Er, you first,” offered Lestrade.

“No, no, do go on,” said Holmes generously.

Lestrade was silent. Finally he gathered his courage and ventured, “I still cannot see how you managed to trace it back to Lady Merridew at all.”

Holmes’ eyebrows shot up on his forehead, and he studied Lestrade carefully for a moment. Then, taking another puff at his pipe, he finally said, “Perhaps if you cared to come round tonight, after you have taken care of things at Scotland Yard, I could describe the particulars. It really was a rather simple matter.”

Lestrade regarded Holmes in turn, searching the cold, hawkish features for any trace of the burning man from only moments before. He could see nothing, and it disturbed him deeply. But he had not imagined it; Holmes had clung to him like a limpet and he would have the bruises to prove it. Somehow, the thought both pleased and terrified him. Bruises were physical, proof that they, two calm and reasonable men, had entered into something without any conscious thought, and that they had already gone too far to take it back or pretend it had not happened. Or perhaps Lestrade could only speak for himself, as Holmes looked back at him with calm gray eyes, his eyebrows still slightly raised as he waited politely for Lestrade’s answer.

“Of course.” The words came from his mouth without any direct command from his brain. Lestrade sat back in the chair with an air of resignation. He had gone far enough to be damned already; he might as well commit the crime to the fullest.

Both men jumped at the heavy tread on the stairs that announced the arrival of the Constables. Lestrade leapt to his feet and, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair, threw it on haphazardly and turned toward the door as the three large men burst in. He directed them toward the bound figure of Sir John Merridew on the floor, which was met with several bemused looks. Lestrade could not blame them; the brute looked rather pathetic with his eyes rolled up in his head and his mouth hanging open in such a fashion. Merridew groaned as the Constables carried him out of the sitting room, but did not wake.

“Just prop him in the cart,” called Lestrade tiredly as they moved down the stairs. He shot a furtive glance at Holmes, but the detective had picked up a ledger from the floor and appeared to be absorbed in it as he blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. Lestrade’s shoulders drooped a bit at the lack of response, but he rallied enough to utter, “Until tonight, Mr. Holmes.”

That earned him a sharp nod, and unless he was much mistaken, the elegant hands that held the book trembled.


End file.
